The Beginnings
by Iva1201
Summary: The events leading to Study in Pink and Study in Pink with a small twist - Sherlock being wrong on his first case with John. Three questions to be answered: why Sherlock needed a flatmate, why he had to prove a point to Lestrade and why the hell the Detective Inspector didn't want to contact him earlier?
1. Chapter 1

**The Beginnings**

**by Iva1201**

_A/N: I am deeply sorry to disappoint my HP readers, but this is a BBC Sherlock fanfic. I promise that, as soon as my muse is cooperative again, you will receive new chapters of my ongoing HP fics, too. For now, should you like to, enjoy my new favourite fandom with me, please. (-: _

_Fellow Sherlock fans welcome to my writing. (-: No slash, I am sorry, friendship only – and nothing mine, sadly._

_Enjoy! _

ooooo

_**Sherlock Holmes's Montague Street Flat**_

_**23**__**rd**__** September **_

_**(four months before meeting John Watson)**_

It was for the case, Sherlock repeated to himself, eyeing the pills on the table in front of him with slight hesitation. Swallowing one of them would not make him addicted – and he highly doubted that he would enjoy the high provided by the Ecstasy anyway. No, there was no danger in the experiment. None at all – except Mycroft or Lestrade finding out and not understanding that Ecstasy was by no means comparable to his favoured seven percent solution…

Mycroft and Sherlock had an agreement. Sherlock would stay clean and Mycroft would cover the costs of his living, paying his rent, equipment needed for his experiments and provide him with a small stipend to cover his other needs. Sherlock would then, very occasionally, assist him in solving hopefully not too boring governmental cases.

Lestrade and Sherlock had another agreement. Sherlock would stay clean (this condition was non-negotiable) and the Detective Inspector would invite him to consult on his less ordinary cases. There wouldn't be any monetary gain there for Sherlock, unless he ever wanted to join Lestrade's team for real employment – an event both the men didn't want to even consider a real possibility. Sherlock would no doubt drive Lestrade mad if they would see each other daily. No, this solution was much better. Both of them agreed.

Sherlock stared at the pills, considering.

If Mycroft would find out, he would cut down on his stipend and the money for the equipment for his experiments, perhaps even threaten to no longer pay his rent. The last would be an empty threat, his brother wouldn't want him to live in the streets again and be truly tempted. No, it would be the stipend and the equipment money only. He would manage several months without the stipend – and Molly and Mike would no doubt let him use the lab in St. Bart's for his experiments. All things considered, Mycroft finding out was no huge problem.

Lestrade would be worse, Sherlock thought. If the DI would find out, he would cut Sherlock's access to crime scenes, leaving Sherlock bored out of his mind. And while Mycroft not paying his rent or research equipment would be disadvantageous, Lestrade's actions might actually lead to Sherlock's true relapse. Not that Sherlock particularly cared right now – solving the case currently occupying his mind appeared much more appealing to him at the moment. All things considered, it was Lestrade's case he was trying to solve – and Lestrade couldn't protest against his methods to unravel it after being stuck on it for over two weeks.

Right then, the benefits of his action would outweigh the possible consequences on this front, Sherlock thought, satisfied, and Mycroft be damned. He reached his pale slim hand forward and took one of the pills, swallowing it and starting a countdown timer on his mobile phone to determinate how long it took for an average young male (by body weight and height, not by the capacity of the brain, certainly) to get high on Ecstasy and then come down again. The results would ensure one man's freedom or possible imprisonment for taking a life…

ooooo

_Mycroft Holmes's office in the Diogenes Club_

_Later the same day_

DI Lestrade was not happy, no, not at all. He looked rather angry – and, if he was able to identify the emotion correctly, quite disappointed, Mycroft Holmes thought, pensively observing the man while he got off the car in front of the Diogenes Club. Sherlock was most likely in a serious trouble then, Mycroft sighed, his hope for a calm and peaceful evening crashing.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector. What has my little brother done now?" Mycroft asked without preamble, offering his counterpart a tumbler of whiskey and gesturing at him to take a seat. Armed with his own glass, Mycroft lowered himself back into his armchair, waiting.

Gregory Lestrade's frown deepened as he accepted the glass and seated himself opposite to Mycroft. Staring into the golden liquid in the tumbler, the man admitted: "Your dear brother is driving me mad again. He arrived to the Yard today, barely sobered up from whatever he had taken, claiming to have solved my latest case for me. I am sorry, Mycroft, but after realising he was just coming down from a high, I threw him out. I hope he won't feel driven to ingest more of whichever drug he favours these days, but I simply cannot work with him like that. When you see him, tell him that he is not to seek me out until he is sure he can stay clean and sober – and I have had enough time to cool down. You can inform him also that it might take a couple of weeks this time; I do not feel generous right now."

Lestrade downed the whiskey in one go then and stood. "You might want to question him if the drug he used this time was Ecstasy. Our suspect claims he was under influence of it in the time his girlfriend was murdered – and apparently cannot remember a thing. I wouldn't put it above your brother to experiment with it on himself. But, no matter how harmless Ecstasy might seem in comparison with the shit he was poisoning himself with in the past, I am not interested in his results if he is to endanger his life or health again like this. I will not have him on my conscience… Have a good day, Mycroft." The Detective Inspector set his tumbler on the table separating them and left the room.

Mycroft Holmes put his glass down as well, his whiskey untouched. Brother dear, he thought, time to teach you a bit responsibility. He pulled out his phone and dialled the number of his assistant. "Please, locate my brother and bring him to me. We have some serious things to discuss."

ooooo

_A/N: _

_This story is trying to answer three questions of mine: _

_why Sherlock needed a flatmate, _

_why he had to prove a point to Lestrade _

_and, mainly, 3) why Lestrade didn't want to contact him earlier on the cabbie's case._


	2. Chapter 2

**The Beginnings**

**by Iva1201**

ooooo

_Mycroft Holmes's office in the Diogenes Club_

_Two hours later_

When Mycroft's new private assistant – _considered exceptionally pretty by most men – MA in Politics, best in her year – recent half a year honorary internship in Strasbourg, indebted to her parents – fluent in French – attracted by women_ – _Mycroft insisted she was being called Anthea despite it clearly not being her real name_ – rang at Sherlock's door and insisted the young Mr. Holmes would kindly accompany her to Mr. Mycroft Holmes in the matter of great importance, Sherlock wrongly deduced _(there was always something he got wrong after all!)_ that his brother had another boring governmental case for him. As Lestrade clearly intended not to work with him for the moment – _despite he had just solved his latest case, annoying, really_ – Sherlock resolved to come with the not-quite Anthea in the – _highly unlikely_ – event his brother had something potentially interesting or at least not exceedingly boring to offer to occupy his time.

The second Sherlock crossed the threshold of Mycroft's office in the Diogenes Club, it was clear that his belief was mistaken. Mycroft evidently was angry with him and… miserable? The first emotion was fairly easy to explain _– untouched tumbler of whiskey on Mycroft's table, next to it emptied glass that originally clearly contained the same liquid – Lestrade had obviously already been there, informing Mycroft that Sherlock had broken his foolish promise to them, no longer as absolutely clean as he had assured them to be and remain – not entirely unexpected, but not welcomed either_. The other emotion was more difficult to decipher. Until Mycroft, his gaze now firmly set on him, the for once unguarded eyes expressing his deep disappointment, unconsciously touched the simple golden ring on his left hand.

Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief. "You are divorcing – no, not your idea, you didn't care she had a lover – she requested it. You pretend you do not mind, as long as she doesn't apply for any of the family estates or more money than your prenuptial agreement entitles her to. But it does bother you – you believe you have given her a tolerant and content home, much more than what Father offered to Mummy. Not to speak of money and position in society…"

Mycroft's frown deepened with each of his brother's words. Now he snapped: "That's quite enough, Sherlock. We are not here to discuss me and my divorce. I believe we have another serious matter to speak of."

Mycroft halted when Sherlock appeared as if he wanted to interrupt him. "Anything you want to tell me?" the older Holmes asked, his voice suddenly soft, as if Mycroft was really trying to sound unthreatening. There was also another undertone and Sherlock took a moment to analyse it – was his brother _hopeful? Hopeful that Lestrade was mistaken? Hopeful that Sherlock would see the reason?_ Sherlock was not able to tell yet, there was not enough data.

"You have clearly spoken with Lestrade. What else is there to say?" he asked rather than to offer any information.

Mycroft observed him over steepled fingers, unconsciously mimicking his brother's favourite posture. "The truth perhaps?" he suggested mildly, trying to maintain the relative peace between them.

Sherlock scolded at him. "We were stuck on the case, I needed extra data, Lestrade was unwilling to give me access to the evidence, I obtained a comparatible sample for the experiment, I concluded the experiment, analysed the data, found the solution of the problem and informed Lestrade. Obviously, Lestrade didn't approve of my methods, refused to listen to me and paid you a visit to inform you. End of the story." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

It was Mycroft's turn to frown now. "Despite all my attempts to make it otherwise, you still seem not able to grasp the essentials here, little brother," he said, the tone once again betraying his frustration. "I am not concerned about the number of Lestrade's solved cases, I am not even concerned about the methods you feel necessary to apply to solve those little mysteries of yours. As long as you do not overstep the law to do so – or do not do anything detrimental to your health. I think we would both agree that exactly that happened earlier today and that it would be highly advisable to avoid any repetition of such a situation."

Sherlock smirked. "How predictable of you, Mycroft. Right then, what is it that you have planned? Will you cut down on my allowance? No money for cabs, experiments and you will no longer pay my rent?"

Mycroft smiled a predatory smile of his own. "Far worse, brother dear," he said, "far worse. I am afraid that you will need to learn how to deal with your fellow human beings. I will continue to pay your rent in Central London as long as you will find yourself a flatmate to pay half of the rent – or a steady job to support your costs. And no, I shall no longer finance your equipment for experiments; you have after all access to a well equipped medical laboratory in St Bartholomew's… Have I forgotten something? Oh, yes, concerning taxis – consider them your extra costs. Should you get yourself a well-paid job, which shouldn't be a problem for you with your supreme intelligence, I am very sure you will be able to afford them. If you are not and the Detective Inspector invites you to work with him again, I am positive that you can always ride with him in his car to visit the crime scenes."

Sherlock's face darkened with each of his brother's words. "Is that all?" he sneered, turning on his heel, ready to leave.

"Almost," Mycroft said in a low voice, almost a whisper, the tone making Sherlock to unwillingly turn back to him. Mycroft was rumaging in his drawer; his back bowed slightly, his face hidden to Sherlock. "There is one more thing," the older Holmes said, straightening himself a moment later. "I will take in safekeeping the rest of your purchase from today morning." Mycroft extended his arm, palm up. "Please?"

Sherlock scolded. No, it was no good to have a brother even more intelligent than you. Somewhere deep down he supposed that Mycroft meant well, but on the surface, he burnt with rage. Nonetheless, he reached inside of his coat pocket, pulled out a box of cigarettes and handed it over to his brother. "I hope you are satisfied now," he scorned, turning once more away.

Mycroft shook his head. "Not yet, little brother. I will take also the other box, if I may."

Sherlock threw him a frown over his shoulder. Then he wordlessly reached in the inner pocket of his coat and handed Mycroft the second box of cigarettes. "I do not have any more," he said, annoyance plain in his voice.

Mycroft nodded. "I know you don't. You never buy more, after all." He smiled a bit then, his face finally softening as he took another box out of his drawer, the very thing he had looked for earlier. "Here, Sherlock, no need to suffer needlesly," he said, offering the box to his brother.

Sherlock looked at the outstratched hand. On Mycroft's palm there was a box of nicotine patches. He nodded in acceptance or perhaps even a bit of gratitude, reached for the box and was out of the office.

Mycroft watched his brother's retreating back, his fingers once more caressing the golden band on his left hand's ring finger. _His whole family now_, he thought regretfully, _and yet his little brother wouldn't think more of him than consider him an enemy. Arch-enemy, perhaps._

His hand dropped to the table, where the two boxes of cigarettes he had just confiscated from Sherlock rested. Mycroft eyed them with disdain, then shook his head in resignation and opened the closer one of them. He pulled out a cigarette, lighted it with matches from the same drawer where his nicotine patches had resided earlier and pulled the first draw.

Seated back in his comfortable armchair, Mycroft continued to smoke, observing the white clouds of smoke above his head. He didn't think he had ever felt so lonely as today.

ooooo

_A/N: _

_I cannot help it – Mycroft does wear a ring that reminds me the most of a wedding ring in Study in Pink. I know, I know, on his right hand, not the left one – but we will come to an explanation later in the story. (-:_

_Enjoyed? Then please feed the author a few reviews, starved people are not able to work well, much less write good stories. (-:_


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